Crossing the Lines
by sheviking
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures. Bella is starving for a better life for her and her son, and taking her clothes off in front of a stranger is just the first of many lines she'll cross.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. It belongs to Stephenie Meyers.

**I had promised myself I wouldn't start posting this, until I had all of it pre-written. And yet, here I am. But, there's a good reason for it, I promise. First of all, it's Mauigirl60's birthday today! This wouldn't have been written if it weren't for her. Thank you, my friend, for all the late night talks and helpful suggestions. **

**Second, thank you so much to everyone who voted for my stories in the Twific Fandom Awards. The Blizzard and Amazing both received 3****rd**** place awards! :D**

**Now, I know a lot of you are thinking, "yeah, a new story is great and all, but what about your old ones?" All I can say is, I'm sorry. Those of you who are also writers know that you cannot force inspiration. Believe me, I've tried. I've written and deleted the next Blizzard chapter 3 times already. It just isn't working for me at the moment. I'll keep trying, I swear. They'll start talking to me again, eventually. Right now, this story is screaming at me to be written. **

**Anyway, about this one: chapters will be short and I'll do my best to post once a week. It won't be a long story, as far as I have planned. Oh, and it contains smut. So there's your warning. **

"Mommy, I'm hungry."

I look up from the help wanted ads and try to smile at my son. I hope I'm successful. I hope he doesn't see the anxiety I feel from hearing his simple request.

"Okay, baby. Grilled cheese sandwich?"

_Please, say yes._

My sweet boy does exactly that and I'm able to relax just a little as I rise and begin assembling the stuff I need: dry bread, the last two slices of the cheese and a stick of butter. The empty cavern of my fridge stares back at me as I take out the few items and quickly make Seth a meager dinner. I know it must taste stale but he starts eating enthusiastically despite this fact.

"What about you, Mommy?"

"I'm not hungry," I lie.

The truth is that I'm starving, but not just for food. I'm starving for more than this—for more than this rundown apartment, for more than this life. It wasn't supposed to be like this. In high school, I was the golden girl—the cheerleader, the prom queen, the most popular student. I was supposed to go to college, graduate and live a wonderful life without any worries. A positive pregnancy test at the end of my senior year changed all that. I refused to get rid of "it", as my religious parents had demanded. So, while the rest of my high school friends went on to pursue their educations, my then-boyfriend and I moved to the city. I was intent on making a good life for my little family. Now, five years later, my boyfriend is gone and an eviction notice is hidden underneath the pile of bills on my kitchen table. I think it's safe to say I've hit rock bottom. I've even considered contacting my parents for help, knowing that they'll probably hang up on me anyway. I haven't talked to them since Seth was born. I had called to let them know and my mother started crying—not happy tears, but tears of shame. My father intercepted the call and ended it promptly, telling me goodbye in a tone that left little room for misinterpretation. I'm not welcome inside their perfect life, and neither is my bastard son. I look at my sweet boy, munching on his sandwich, and wonder how anyone could reject him. I've never once regretted having him. Not during the thirty-two hours of labor, not when he cried every night for two months because of colic, and not even when Mike left six months ago, never to return. Seth is my whole world and I'll do anything for him.

"Finish up, hon," I say. "You're spending the night at Mrs. Cope's."

His face drops, but he nods. I know he doesn't want to go, but I have no choice. I have to find work and there aren't a lot of options for me—a twenty-two year old with little job experience and no marketable skills to speak of. In the bathroom, I put on too much makeup and tease my long hair before changing. My nice outfits won't do tonight. I've tried every diner, restaurant and shop I can think of with no luck. I have to go elsewhere tonight and with a small sigh, I pull out a short, tight skirt and a low-cut top, pairing the outfit with stilettos. I hide myself underneath a coat before going back into the kitchen because I don't want Seth to see me dressed this way.

Ten minutes later, I knock on Mrs. Cope's door, which is just down the hall from our apartment. She's always home.

"Bella," she greets me, looking me over with a frown.

"Hi, Mrs. Cope, I have to go out. Would you mind . . .?"

Seth is hiding behind me, clutching the hem of my coat in silent protest.

"Come on in," she sighs, reaching out her hand to my son.

"Mommy," he whispers, looking up at me with wide eyes.

I kneel down as best as I can in my restrictive outfit until I'm at eye level with him.

"I'm coming back, baby. I promise. It's just for a few hours."

He's terrified of me leaving and no amount of reassurance on my part seems to help. I understand why he's scared, though. Fucking Mike and his promise to come back soon—it's been six months and Seth's still waiting; each day his heart breaks a bit more when his Daddy doesn't show up. Seth wraps his little arms around my neck and squeezes until I can hardly breathe.

"Listen," I whisper. "I love you, baby, and I swear I'm coming back. I'll never leave you, not ever."

"Not ever?"

"Not ever," I promise, and I mean it with my whole heart. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Okay," he sniffs.

Mrs. Cope huffs impatiently above us. She's a no-nonsense kind of lady and I'm sure she thinks I'm coddling Seth, but I honestly don't give a shit what she thinks. I'm grateful for her help, though. Her apartment smells like stale cigarette smoke and her cat, Buster, scares Seth, but tonight she's all we've got.

"Come on, young man," she says, as Seth reluctantly releases me. "Did you have dinner?"  
"Yes, Ma'am."

"You have room for dessert? I bought pie. It's in the kitchen."

"Yes, please."

Seth wanders into her hallway, giving me one last look before getting his dessert.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cope," I say, hobbling to my feet in those stupid heels.

She looks me over.

"Where're you off to?"

"I have to get a job. Any job."

She nods slowly, taking a drag of her cigarette.

"You be careful," she warns, waving it at me.

"I will. I'll be back in a few hours. If he falls asleep, don't wake him, okay? I'll just carry him home."

She closes the door with a small shake of her head. I know she doesn't approve, but what else can I do at this point? Steeling myself, I pull the strap of my nearly-empty purse over my shoulder and walk out of the building into the night.

Two hours later, I'm walking down the sidewalk, trying to keep myself from crying. I'm humiliated and defeated. I went to the club. I crossed that line and ending up taking my clothes off in the manager's office. I fucking did it and what did it get me? Nothing!

"You're not hot enough to dance on stage," he told me.

My tits are too small—meaning they're real—and the rest of me too skinny.

"Quit starving yourself, and maybe we can work something out," he said.

I nearly screamed. I'm fucking broke and in order for my child to eat, I skip meals.

"I'm sorry, baby," I whisper into the cold night air, blinking back tears. "I tried."

I don't know what to do now. There's no more money, and there's food for maybe two more days. The rent is long overdue, and if we get kicked out on the street, they'll take Seth away from me! My heart grips with fear and I have to stop walking and concentrate on breathing.

"How much?"

I startle and nearly trip as I lose my balance. A dark car has pulled over and the passenger side window is lowered.

"W-what?"

"How much?"

_How much for what?_

Then, the proverbial ton of bricks hits me. He thinks I'm a hooker! Well, I guess I do look like one, sort of. _Shit._

"I'm not a—"

"I don't care," the voice interrupts. "How. Much?"

"Look!" I say sharply. "I'm not a hooker, okay? I'm just trying to get home."

"Three hundred dollars."

_Whoa!_

I don't know the going rate, but I'm pretty sure it's less than that. Three hundred dollars! To me, that's a lot of money. I can almost taste the food I'd be able to buy with it, feel the heaviness of the grocery bags in my hands, and practically see the brimming shelves in my fridge as I put it all in there. And Seth, my darling boy, could have a real hot breakfast in the morning!

"F-for what?" I ask, stepping closer to the car.

The door opens and I catch a glimpse of a suit sleeve and a large hand.

I know I shouldn't do this. It's dangerous. But I can't lose Seth! Quickly, I bury my right hand in my coat pocket, gripping the can of mace I'd put there earlier as if it's my lifeline, which I suppose isn't an exaggeration in this case.

Climbing into the car with my heart in my throat, I don't know if I'm about to make a huge mistake, but I have no choice. I'm desperate. I'm crossing another line.

**So, yeah, that happened. It's a little different from my usual stuff. Hope you liked it just the same. :) **

**Now, please help me wish Mauigirl60 a very happy birthday! **

**P.S: In case you hadn't noticed, My Viking was taken down by the FFN admins. I have reposted it on two great sites that you can find on my profile page. If this story, or any others are removed, I'll repost them there. **

**See you next week! **


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. It belongs to Stephenie Meyers.

**Absolutely overwhelmed by the response to the first chapter of this story. Thank you so much for all your reviews and PMs! Mauigirl60, thank you so much for all your help and advice. We're in this together! ;) **

**I'm posting this early, because today is a very special day for someone who's close to my heart; my beta EdwardsEternal, whose real name is Melanie Moreland. Today, she has taken a huge step and is becoming a published author! Her novel **_**Into the Storm**_** is out and you can purchase it on Amazon in either a Kindle version or paperback. Congratulations, my dear friend! **

BPOV

The man inside the car is nothing like I expected. He's good-looking, in a corporate sort of way, wearing a nice dark suit with a shirt and tie. His dark hair is neatly styled, he's clean shaven and I can smell his cologne from where I'm sitting. It's nice. He's a lot older than me, probably in his early forties. All in all, he doesn't seem like the kind of man who'd have to solicit a girl in order to have sex, but then again, what do I know? I've never done anything like this before, so I really don't have a clue what type of men solicit prostitutes.

"Close the door," he says with an air of impatience.

I hesitate. Am I really doing this? I can't get out if he decides to lock it. Also, I have to take my hand off the mace in my pocket. That's not my only worry, though.

"You're not a cop, right?" I ask. "You have to tell me if you are. It's like the law or something."

"Is it?"

"I . . . think I saw it on a TV show," I say, feeling stupid.

"I'm not a cop," he says after a moment. "And you're obviously not a hooker."

"I told you I wasn't."

"Do you want to do this or not?" he asks.

I swallow back the tears I feel approaching. I _have_ to do this.

"Yes," I answer, closing the door. "I need the money."

He eyes me speculatively for a moment before nodding to himself.

"Yes, you do, don't you?" he says, steering the car back onto the road.

We drive for a little while, saying nothing to each other. I keep a close watch on him, and my hand is back on the mace in my pocket. Finally, he turns the car into an alley between two large warehouse buildings and shuts off the engine. Guess this is it.

"So, uh, what do you want?" I ask, glancing over at him.

"I'd like a blow job."

He says it as if he'd ordered a cup of coffee from a waitress. Still, I'm relieved. I thought he would've demanded a lot more.

"I should get the money first, right?"  
_Why the hell am I asking __**him**__?! _

He looks slightly amused as he pulls out his wallet, taking three one-hundred dollar bills from a large wad of cash and handing them to me. Jeez, this guy must be loaded! Stuffing them in my purse, I resist the urge to thank him. I know I'll have to earn that money now, doing something I'd never, ever imagined doing. I'm a good girl. I've only slept with my high school boyfriend and he hardly ever asked for this.

"Take off your coat," the man demands.

I manage to wrestle my way out of it, rubbing my bare arms as the cool air hits me.

"The top, too."

For the second time tonight, I find myself showing my nakedness to a stranger. I look away from him as it comes off.

"Eyes to me," he directs.

I force myself to meet his gaze. I can't tell what color his eyes are, except that they're light. Blue, maybe?

"You're a beautiful girl," he says.

It doesn't really sound like a compliment to me, but more like he's stating a fact.

"Thanks," I mumble anyway.

"How old are you?" he asks.

"Twenty-two."

"Good."

"Good?"  
"Yeah, you look younger, and I'm really not into the whole underage thing."

I flinch slightly when he reaches out and runs his large hand up my arm and then across my chest, fondling my breasts. My nipples have hardened in the cold and he tugs on both of them, making me gasp.

"C'mere," he says, pulling me closer.

I tense up. We're face-to-face and he's looking me over with unmistakable desire. I imagine I must appear to him as a deer caught in the headlights, with my wide-eyed frightened look. He cradles my jaw and runs his thumb across my mouth, smearing my lipstick.

"None of that shit," he whispers. "You don't need it."

He leans in and I close my eyes, thinking he'll kiss me. Instead, I feel his lips against my cheek as they slide across it and reach my ear.

"Now, suck me off like a good girl."

My heart hammers in my chest as I watch him move his seat back and undo his pants, his movements slow and deliberate. He doesn't take them off, but simply unzips and pulls out his cock. I can't help but stare since I've only ever seen Mike's and this man looks very different from what I'm used to. He's a lot bigger, and he's uncircumcised, the tip already glistening. With a firm hand on my neck, the man pushes me down and I have just a second to wet my lips before he's in my mouth.

_I can't believe I'm doing this!_

My lips stretch around his girth and I do my best to calmly breathe through my nose as he pushes me nearly all the way down. Wrapping his hand around my hair, he guides my movements as I do my best to make him come as quickly as possible. Clearly, I'm not doing a very good job, because it seems like he can go on forever. My jaw starts to ache, my lower back is protesting at being bent in such a weird angle and I think I'm drooling all over his fancy dress pants. All the while, he says nothing but a few low "fucks" and "yeahs", particularly when he hits the back of my throat and I gag around him. I guess he likes that, for some reason.

Suddenly, he presses me down and thrusts his hips up in rapid jerky movements, pushing his cock farther into my throat. I cough and sputter around him, pulling myself up. Cringing, I feel him coming in warm thick spurts on the side of my face. As soon as his grip on my hair loosens, I sit up and start furiously wiping at my cheek, getting the mess on my hands instead. As I catch my breath, I wonder what I did wrong. It's not supposed to nearly suffocate you when you give a blow job, I _do_ know that. Whenever I did it to Mike, it was part of foreplay and it was okay. I hope this guy, who's now fixing his pants, isn't mad at me and wants his money back. Realistically, he just paid three hundred dollars for the shittiest blow job ever, so I'm sure he's not too happy right now. I glance over but I can't read his expression. He's running his hands through his hair, looking into space.

"I, uh, I'm sorry," I whisper. "I haven't really done that before."

He looks over at me, his eyes drawn to my naked chest before settling on my face. When he leans toward me, I press myself against the door, scared he'll strike out at me. Instead, he opens the glove compartment and reaches inside to pull out a box of wet wipes. He hands me a few that I use to clean off my hands and face.

"Next time, swallow when I come," he says.

_Next time!_

My mind is reeling from his casual sounding comment. Quickly, I pull my top back on and grab my coat, burying my hand in the pocket just in case he tries something.

"I'll drive you home," he says, starting the car. "Where to?"

I tell him my neighborhood and notice his slight frown. Obviously, he knows it's in a bad part of town, but he drives me anyway. We don't talk on the way there and I tell him to pull over at the market two blocks from my building that's open twenty-four hours.

"Thanks for the ride," I say, undoing my seatbelt.

"Wait."

_Shit._

He reaches into his pocket and hands me a card.

"Be at this address tomorrow night at eight."

I don't look at it.

"What? Why?"

"I want to see you again," he says, like it's really that simple.

"I can't, sorry."

I'm halfway out of the car when he speaks again.

"I'll pay you five hundred dollars."

And there it is. I turn around to face him again.

"What, uh, what do I have to do for it?" I ask.

His gaze is steely.

"Anything I ask."

_Double shit._

"You . . . won't hurt me, will you?"

The look in his eyes softens a bit.

"No, I won't hurt you."

"This is your place?" I ask, holding up the card.

He nods.

"Okay," I whisper. "I'll be there."

"Good girl."

_What an incredibly weird thing to say._

"Um, good night."  
I climb out of the car without looking back and rush into the market, feeling safer underneath the familiar fluorescent lights. As I move through the aisles, throwing groceries inside my cart, you'd think I'd feel bad about what I've done tonight, but I don't. All I can think about is picking up Seth at Mrs. Cope's and then waking him with a huge breakfast in the morning.

For the first time in weeks, I feel myself smiling genuinely.

**Who was that, I wonder? **

**Have a great weekend, everyone, and I'll see you next week! **


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. It belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

**I know this is short, but I figure a lot of you are busy today anyway. Happy Thanksgiving and Chanukah to those who celebrate, and happy Thursday to the rest of you. I'm not American, but I'd still like to say that I'm very thankful this year. I'm thankful both my kids have gotten their diagnoses so we can get them help, I'm thankful my mom's cancer was discovered as quickly as it was and has now been removed, and I'm thankful for my husband, who supports me in everything I do. I'm thankful for Mauigirl60's friendship and awesome beta skills (any mistakes are mine. I really should just leave it alone after she's looked at it), and last, but not least, I'm thankful for all of you who are reading right now. **

**Enjoy!**

BPOV

"Mommy, you came back," Seth mumbles as I gently lift him off the couch.

"Of course I did, sweet boy," I whisper, cradling him in my arms.

He smiles and falls asleep again almost immediately, his head on my shoulder.

"How'd it go?" I ask, turning to Mrs. Cope.

"Just fine. He doesn't like my cat much, though."

I nod, glancing at it. It's watching me with narrowed eyes and then hisses for no apparent reason. Demon spawn.

"Listen, I know it's a lot to ask, but . . . could you possibly watch him again tomorrow night? I have someplace I need to be at 8 o'clock."

Mrs. Cope watches me closely.

"You get a job?"

"Yeah."

It's not technically a lie. I'll be getting paid for whatever I have to do.

"All right."

"Thank you so much. You're a lifesaver."

Mrs. Cope doesn't pry, thankfully. I'm not sure what I'd tell her if she decided to ask for more details. Seth is getting heavy in my arms and I leave quickly, carrying both him and the bags from the market. After I've tucked him in, I put the groceries away and take a much needed shower. Under the lukewarm spray, I allow myself to cry for a minute or two, and then force myself to stop. I feel dirty, but I don't regret my decision to get into the strange man's car. I remind myself that I can feed my son and that's all that matters. Besides, it could've been a lot worse. The man in the car wasn't violent or crazy, and he drove me home afterward. With the 500 dollars I'm getting tomorrow, I'm well on my way to paying at least part of what I owe the landlord. Good thing this place is dirt cheap.

I know it won't be enough to last for a long time, and I need a steady income. My parents aren't going to help and neither will Mike's parents. I tried calling them several times after he left us, but they've either hung up on me or refused to respond to the many messages I've left, explaining my situation to them. They can't stand me and I know they think it's my fault Mike didn't go to college. After we told them I was pregnant, they blamed me, like I had done it on purpose or something. I thought we were being careful and we used something every time, so it came like a complete shock to the both of us. Mike mentioned going to a clinic, but I wouldn't hear of it and he came around after a little while. Maybe he felt guilty. He was the one who wanted to have sex and he was pretty relentless about it until I finally gave in. Two months later, I was pregnant.

My relationship with Mike changed very soon after Seth was born. He wasn't exactly an easy baby, always fussing and crying, and I could tell from early on that Mike regretted his decision of becoming a father. He was distant and angry most of the time. Still, Seth loves his father and asks for him often. I don't know what to tell him. I don't know where he is and I have no idea how to go about finding him. His boss says he simply quit, and I've filed a missing person's report, but so far there's been no word from the overworked police of the city. They have more important things to do than to hunt down an errant father, who's not in any danger. He simply doesn't want us anymore. Don't get me wrong, I don't want him either. If he came back, I wouldn't be inviting him back into my heart or my bed. The love we had for each other is long gone. Now, I only need him to be a father to our son and to help pay the goddamn bills! But, it seems the only one who's willing to help me do that is the strange man in the dark car. Christ, I don't even know his name!

I throw on my robe and wrap my hair in a towel, check on Seth who's fast asleep, and look through my coat, locating the card he handed me.

E.A. Masen

1011 Evergreen Point Road

Medina, Washington

Damn. He lives way out in the suburbs. It's going to be a hassle getting there since I don't have a car. I know the neighborhood by reputation only. It's really swanky and my suspicion that E.A. Masen is loaded was apparently spot on. He probably works here in Seattle in an office and spends his nights and weekends in suburban bliss. Must be nice. I wonder if he's married. I didn't notice a wedding ring, but those come off easily, if he even wears one at all. Putting the card back in my pocket, I push all thoughts of him from my mind. No need to deal with the reality of him until I have to.

The rest of the night I spend on our lumpy couch watching blurry TV, too tired to commit to putting a DVD in the ancient player no one wants to buy. Believe me, I've tried. Most of our nicer things have already been sold off, including all of Mike's videogames and his Wii. He left it for Seth, but soon putting food on the table became more important. I know Seth misses playing, but I think that has more to do with the fact that it was the only thing he and Mike really did together.

_One day I'll get a new one and I'll learn how to play. I promise, baby._

Next morning I wake up, still on the couch. My back is a bit sore, but that's quickly forgotten when I remember what I'm about to do: Cook my son a big breakfast, for the first time in months. Our kitchen is small and old, but I keep it tidy and clean so it's not so bad and I work fast putting together pancakes, bacon and fruit. I'm making myself a cup of instant when Seth shuffles in, rubbing his eyes.

"'Morning, sweetheart. You hungry?"  
I'm so happy right now.

"You made pancakes and chocolate milk?"

Seth is now wide awake, staring at the small feast on the table.

"Is it my birthday, Mommy?"

I laugh, kneeling down to hug him.

"No, silly. You know your birthday isn't for another couple of months. Come and eat."  
And he does, probably way too much, but I don't have the heart to cut him off. Who knows when we'll be able to splurge like this again? And then I realize something. If I can do a good job tonight for E.A. Masen, he might consider seeing me again, which means more money for me and Seth. If I can eat like this for a while, I'll regain my figure and possibly land the job at the strip club. It's good money, and while it's not the most honorable of professions, it's legal and steady work.

It's not the best plan in the world, but at this point it's all I've got. Looking at my son's happy smile as he reaches for another piece of bacon, I know that no matter what E.A Masen wants me to do tonight, it'll be worth it.

**Yes, it IS Edward! Of course it is. I'm a canon girl all the way. ;) I know some will be happy and some will be disappointed because you didn't like him. Well, that doesn't surprise me. This isn't "Pretty Woman" and they won't fall madly in love in three days. It isn't that kind of story. **

**As for Edward's appearance: yes, I know he doesn't look exactly like he's "supposed" to, but I can't really see a 40 year old businessman with a pea coat and a bouffant hairstyle. Imagine Robert Pattinson in Cosmopolis (just a bit older) or DiorRob, and you'll get the picture. :) He'll be in the next chapter, I promise. And It'll be longer than this one. Have a lovely day and I'll see you next week. **


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. It belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

**Thank you so much for reading and all your lovely reviews. Reading your thoughts is definitely a highlight of my day when I can sneak off to the computer. :)**

**Thank you, Mauigirl60, for all your help and suggestions. They're invaluable to me! **

**Now, who's ready to go visit E.A Masen? :D**

**Enjoy!**

BPOV

Getting to E.A Masen's place in Medina is, as I predicted, a real hassle. I'd dropped Seth off at Mrs. Cope's in plenty of time, but he was once again scared of me leaving him and it took a bit of convincing to get him inside her apartment. Now, I'm running for the bus stop. I'll have to transfer at the station downtown and I really hope I make it. I have a feeling E.A Masen isn't the kind of man who cares for tardiness. At all. Half an hour later, I'm frazzled and out of breath, but at least I'm standing in front of the right bus, which is headed out of the city in just a few minutes. I shuffle in and the driver asks where I'm headed.

"Evergreen Port Road," I tell him.

He looks me up and down.

"Next time, it'll be a lot easier for you to take one of the employee shuttles," he explains. "Less stops on the way there and they're cheaper."

"Oh, I didn't realize there was such a thing."

"Oh, sure. Can't expect those fancy folks to refill their own drinks," he says with a friendly wink, obviously mistaking me for a maid or server of some sort.

I'm grateful I decided not to dress as revealing as I had yesterday. Tonight, I'm simply wearing my nicest jeans with a white top underneath a jacket. I thank and pay the driver, then head to the back, not really interested in making any more conversation. After many stops in the city, it's a short trip across the Evergreen Point toll bridge and soon the driver calls out my stop. I step off the bus and it's like I've entered a new world. Medina is located across Lake Washington and it's supposedly a haven for wealthy people, filled with golf courses, country clubs and, of course, million-dollar homes. Rows of beachfront property stretch down along the coast as far as the eye can see, with each house grander than the next. Taking a deep breath, I start walking, trying to imagine what it must be like to live here. I can't. My parents are modest people and the small town where I grew up didn't have neighborhoods like this one. For the last four years, I've lived in squalor, basically. Mike worked on and off at a bike shop, fixing motorcycles, but it was never steady work. I've stayed at home with Seth so I've never had an income at all. I get a bit of assistance from the state, but until they launch an official investigation to conclude that Mike's no longer supporting us, we live off almost nothing at all; hence, the reason for my being here in Medina on a Saturday night. Suddenly, I realize that daylight is fading and check my watch.

_Fuck, I'm late!_

I take off running, probably looking like a madwoman, but I don't care. I can't afford to lose this job, or whatever the hell I should call it. I just know I need that money! Being mindful of the addresses on the houses and properties I pass, I reach my destination and turn into a smaller road, leading down toward the lake. The house I get to looks like three families could live there, rather than just one, and yet it's not nearly as excessive as those around it. Located right on the edge of the lake, its three stories overlook the water and are surrounded by tall trees; from my uneducated guess, I'd say it was designed by an architect. I don't stop to admire it, though, but hurry to the front door and ring the bell. Moments later, the man from last night opens it. He's in a suit again this evening, but he's loosened his shirt collar and taken off his tie and jacket. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up, revealing a large, very expensive-looking watch on his left wrist. In the fading light, I notice that his eyes are more green than blue, and his dark hair is actually a shade of auburn, that I wouldn't expect on a man. He's very handsome, but obviously displeased. The frown that's already on his face deepens as he sees me. I'm panting for breath, flushed and hunched over, which is definitely not an attractive look on anyone.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm late," I manage.

"How did you get here?"

"I, uh, I took the bus and then I ran the rest of the way."  
"I can see that," he says, pursing his lips. "Why not a cab?"

_Is he joking?_

"It's probably three times as much," I explain.

He doesn't respond and just stares at me, blocking the entrance with his tall frame.

"Should I . . . leave?"

"No, come on in."  
He steps aside and holds the door open for me as I enter. The house is gorgeous on the inside.

"Wow!" I exclaim, turning in a circle to take it all in.

E.A Masen is still watching me, so I try to dial down my gawking at the fancy surroundings and, instead, look down at the polished hardwood floor, hoping he'll say something. I feel like shrinking away when he moves to stand in front of me, placing his index finger underneath my chin.

"Tell me your name," he orders, lifting my face up.

"I-Isabella," I stutter. "But I prefer Bella."

"I don't," he says, and just like that, the discussion is over.

I don't really mind. We're on his dime so I guess he can call me anything he wants.

"Isabella. You'll refer to me as Mr. Masen or Sir, at all times. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir," I whisper.

"Good girl."  
He smiles, for the very first time in my presence. I don't know much about this Mr. Masen, but obedience is apparently something he enjoys a great deal. His smile reveals tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but they don't detract from his good looks, quite the opposite.

"Come with me," he says, leading me up the winding staircase.

We pass several doors on the first floor before entering a huge luxurious bathroom.

"I want you to take a shower," he directs. "Use all the products I've put out and dry your hair afterward. Then, I want you to put this on and come join me in the kitchen. Understood?"

He points to a pretty floral print dress on a hanger by the door.

"Uh, y-yes, Sir."

"Very good."  
I feel a bit shell-shocked after he's left. He wants me to shower? I sniff my armpits, but can't find anything wrong with the way I smell. I showered at home right before dropping Seth off so I'm already clean. What a weirdo. Regardless, I do as I'm told, locking the door to the bathroom first and removing what little makeup I have on. The shower is really nice and I actually enjoy it. Mr. Masen has put out both shampoo and conditioner, expensive salon brands that I could never afford myself. Turning to the other bottle in the shower, I frown and try my best to read the label but my high school French isn't proficient. I pour some of it in my hand and the texture tells me it's some kind of exfoliating body scrub, which I use all over. It smells like flowers, but I don't know which kind. After I've rinsed myself, I quickly dry off with a fluffy towel, and wrap a smaller one around my head. On the table next to the sink, I spot a comb, hair mousse and a bottle like the French one in the shower, this one labeled, _Lait pour le corps_.

_Use all the products._

Dropping the towel, I apply the body lotion carefully all over, wondering why Mr. Masen wants me to do all this in the first place. It's creepy.

_It rubs the lotion on its skin._

"Stop it!" I whisper to myself, as I start on my hair.

Yes, it's weird that I have to go through all this preparation, but so be it. That doesn't mean Mr. Masen's a serial killer. He's probably just neat and prefers his women really, really clean. After I've blow-dried my hair, I turn to the dress, faced with a dilemma. Mr. Masen hasn't provided me with any underwear, so does that mean I should wear my own or forego them completely? Since my own clothes apparently aren't up to his standards, I decide that my inexpensive underwear probably isn't either and decide to go commando. Hell, I'm here to have sex with the guy, right? Slipping the dress over my head, I look at myself in the mirror. I look young and innocent with loose hair and zero makeup on. Is this what he likes? I guess it could be a lot worse. At least he's not dressing me up in black leather and corsets. Taking a deep breath, I unlock the door and make my way downstairs, barefoot and barely covered up. I find him in the kitchen, poring over a stack of papers at the table. I clear my throat softly, but he doesn't respond.

"Mr. Masen?"

He looks up, piercing me with his gaze.

"Never interrupt me when I'm working."

My mouth drops open. _God, he's so rude!_

"I'm sorry, Sir," I say.

He stands and approaches me, looking me over with interest.

"You're forgiven," he says. "Did you want to ask me something?"  
"Well, yes," I say. "What . . . should I have done when I came down here?"

I don't want to annoy him. I need him to be happy with me, so he'll want to see me again.

"You should have waited for me to address you first. You're here for _me_, not the other way around. Tonight, you're mine to do with as I please and all you have to do is obey."

Tears well up in my eyes, though I'm not sure why. He's telling me the truth and yet it's hard to hear.

"None of that now," he says in a surprisingly gentle voice, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

I draw a deep breath, willing myself not to let my emotions get the best of me. Mr. Masen smiles at me, running his fingers across the apple of my cheek.

"There's a good girl," he whispers. "You ready to let me be in charge?"  
I nod, bracing myself for whatever he might inflict upon me.

"Very good," he says, nodding. "Isabella, I'd like you to make me an apple pie."

_What. The. Fuck? _

**Hah, didn't see that one coming, did ya? ;) **

**By the way, Isabella was remembering the movie "Silence of the Lambs" when she was putting the lotion on. If you've seen it, you know what that's all about. *Shudder* I promise, this is not that kind of story either. **

**So, how does everyone feel about Mr. Masen now?**

**See you all next week! **


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. It belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

**Thank you, thank you, thank you! I swear, I've never laughed so much reading reviews before, as I did last week. You guys are hilarious and I'm so happy you liked the chapter. Thank you for all of your thoughts and prayers regarding my mom and my kids. We're doing all right and my mom is on her second dose of chemo now, but feeling pretty good all things considered. **

**Mauigirl60, what can I say? You already know how much you mean to me. :)**

**As for some of your questions: I don't give away plot, sorry. You'll just have to go along for the ride on this one. What I **_**can**_** reveal is that there won't be any abuse in this story, so please don't worry about that. Yes, My Viking was removed and you can find its new locations by looking at my profile page. No, I'm very sorry, but I don't know when I'll find the time or inspiration to finish my other stories. I write them as they come to me. **

**Okay, enjoy this fairly long chapter. :) **

BPOV

"A-an apple pie, Sir?" I stutter.

_Is that slang for some sort of sex act?_

"Please tell me you know how to bake," Mr. Masen says, sounding a bit exasperated.

"Oh, yes, Sir."

I nod eagerly, beyond relieved that he really _is_ just talking about baked goods.

"Good." he says, smiling. "Feel free to make yourself at home in my kitchen. You may begin."  
_All righty then._

I rummage through the cupboards and the fridge, gathering bowls, utensils and ingredients, and ignore the way Mr. Masen watches me. After a few minutes, he finally takes a seat at the kitchen table again, and I feel as though I can relax a bit more. His kitchen is every chef's dream and I find myself enjoying the task, even under these strange circumstances. I feel as though I'm auditioning, but I have no clue what role I'm up for. I thought this guy was just looking for sex, but it seems I'm here for more than that.

As I begin to make the crust, Mr. Masen stands up and walks over. I can feel him behind me, observing, and it makes me nervous. I jump a little as his hands go into my hair, gathering it and wrapping something around it to sweep it up. He leans down and inhales deeply against the skin on my now exposed neck.

"Lovely," he murmurs.

I don't know if I should respond, so I stand perfectly still, my hands still buried in the flour mixture.

"Keep working," he urges.

I do as I'm told, gently mixing the ingredients while he watches over my shoulder. His warm fingers fiddle with one of the thin straps of the dress I'm wearing and, suddenly, he pushes it all the way down to the crook of my elbow, exposing my left breast.

"That's perfect," he whispers in my ear. "Just like that."

I'm mortified. He walks back to his seat and starts working again, as though nothing is out of the ordinary. Meanwhile, I have no choice but to keep baking, very much aware of the fact that it makes my breasts jiggle with each move I make. It feels obscene. We're in the kitchen, for goodness' sake! I glance over to where Mr. Masen is sitting and find him watching me, yet again, while tapping his pen against his lips. He is _such_ a weirdo!

Sighing inwardly, I remind myself of the money and start peeling and slicing the apples. After I've placed them on top of the crust, I mix granulated sugar and cinnamon in a small bowl. But before I sprinkle it over the apple slices, I pause. Not everyone likes cinnamon in their apple pie. Does Mr. Masen? I don't want to take a chance on this. It seems like this pie is important so I can't risk making something he won't enjoy. I look over at him, but he's not watching this time.

"M-"

I press my lips together, stopping the sound immediately.

_Shit! I shouldn't interrupt him while he's working! Did he notice?_

I look over again but, thankfully, he's still bent over his papers. Picking up the small bowl, I approach the table and stand still next to his chair, saying nothing. The urge to cover myself is strong, but I suppress it. For a few minutes, I'm rooted to the spot while he ignores me. I feel like a tool, standing here with my breast hanging out, and still I say or do nothing. Finally, he looks up at me, smiling.

"Yes, Isabella?" he says pleasantly.

"Excuse me, Sir. I was wondering if you like cinnamon in your pie?"

I hold the bowl out to show him. You know, in case he doesn't know what cinnamon is. God, I'm an idiot.

"Well, let's see now," he says, wrapping his long fingers around my wrist, pulling me closer to him.

He opens his mouth and taps the tip of his index finger against his tongue before dipping it in the bowl and then tasting the sugar and cinnamon mixture.

"Hmm," he says, looking up at me. "What do you think?"

Putting more of it on his finger, he pushes it between my parted lips.

"Suck," he orders.

I do as I'm told, hollowing out my cheek.

"Well?" he prompts, leaning in to sort of nuzzle my breast.

"I . . . I like cinnamon," I whisper.

"As do I."

I gasp as he wraps his lips around my exposed nipple, flicking across it with his tongue. His eyes meet mine and he grins around my sensitive flesh as his hands start trailing up the length of my thighs, slipping underneath the dress. I turn red as his large hands cup my ass, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"No underwear," he murmurs after he's released my nipple. "You naughty girl."

He starts exploring underneath the fabric. His touches are slow—lazy almost—while he watches my face the whole time. My breath hitches in my throat as a fingertip comes in contact with my most sensitive place. His touches bear witness to his level of experience. There's no fumbling around, he knows what he's doing.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "You didn't give me any and I . . . I didn't think you'd like the ones I have."

"You wanted to please me?"

The tip of his finger slides lower, slipping inside me. I nod in response to his question.

"That's good," he says. "You really are a sweet girl, aren't you, Isabella?"

"Yes, Sir."

_Well, at least I used to be. Now, I don't know what to call myself._

Mr. Masen removes his hands from me and pulls the other strap down, which makes the dress fall off me completely. His eyes scan me from head to toe, pausing on areas that are of particular interest to him. Blindly, he moves his paperwork aside never taking his eyes off me. When he suddenly rises, I take a step back, overwhelmed by his height. Standing naked in front of him while he's still fully dressed makes me feel especially vulnerable, and I yelp when he grabs me.

"I won't hurt you," he practically croons in my ear. "I'm going to fuck you right here on this table."

He kisses the side of my neck and takes my hair down.

"You'll let me do that, won't you, Isabella?"

"Y-yes, Sir."

"Good girl. Turn around and bend over."

I obey, trembling lightly as I place my upper body on the cool surface of the table and close my eyes.

"Spread your legs."

Drawing a deep breath, I move my feet apart, exposing myself to Mr. Masen.

"Beautiful," he says softly.

I want to snort but, wisely, I don't. His hands are back on me again a second later, touching me in the right place. I suppress a moan when two fingers slide inside while his thumb moves to rub tight circles, making me breathe faster.

"That's it," he says, sounding very pleased. "Get my fingers nice and wet."

I sort of hate the fact that my body seems to like what he's doing. It makes it a lot harder to remain detached from this. On the other hand, I'm grateful he hasn't just plowed into me, which would, undoubtedly, hurt. A moment later, he stops touching me and I hear him rustling around, followed by the sound of his zipper. The crackle of the condom wrapper relaxes me a lot because I have a good inclination that Mr. Masen's sexual past is very different from mine.

"You want this, pretty girl?"

He moves the head of his cock up and down the length of my pussy, caressing my ass with his free hand. I nod my head, a bit puzzled that he even bothered to ask at all. I'm here for _him_, just as he said.

"Tell me," he orders. "I want to hear you say it."

"I . . . I want it."

The words are barely out before he grabs my hips and thrusts inside, making me gasp loudly. He's very big, stretching me to my limit and I do my best to relax.

"Fuck, yes!" Mr. Masen breathes. "You'd better hold onto something."  
Two seconds later, I understand what he means. He fucks me like he's trying to move the sturdy table across the kitchen floor and my arms flail out as I manage to hold onto the edge of it, protecting my poor thighs from colliding too hard with it. A moment later, he grabs my hips, pulling me back against him, our skin slapping together each time my ass meets his front. It's better this way, it doesn't hurt.

I cry out, more from surprise than pain, when Mr. Masen pulls my hair, forcing me up on my elbows. He reaches underneath me, kneading my breasts, while he leans in to groan in my ear.

"So sweet . . . So tight around me. You're my good girl, right, Isabella?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Louder!" he commands, fucking me harder and faster.

"Yes, Sir. Yes, Mr. Masen!" I cry.

"Fuck, yes!"

His hands return to my hips, moving my body with his, taking my body with his.

I've never experienced sex like this before—so aggressive and wild. It scares me a little. Mr. Masen comes with a roar, his body sinking down on mine as his hips still thrust slowly. I lay down flat on the surface, feeling his shirt buttons against my naked back.

"Mmm," he pants, delivering a gentle bite to my shoulder. "So sweet."

I lay perfectly still while he recovers, nuzzling my hair and breathing deeply. I remain still as he gets off me, removing the used condom and zipping his pants.

"Up you go," he says, patting my ass.

He turns me around and makes me look up at him.

"You've never done that before—been fucked like that."  
It's not a question. I shake my head, feeling tears pool in my eyes.

"Stop that," he says firmly, but not unkindly. "No shame, no guilt. You're here for me. To please me."

I nod slowly, drawing a shaky breath.

"And I am," he adds.

"You're what, Mr. Masen?"

He smiles.

"Pleased."

I breathe in again, deeply through my nose.

_I've pleased him. I've succeeded._

Unexpected warmth spreads through my chest. He hands me the dress, helping me slip it back on and then puts my hair back up.

"So, Isabella," he says, sounding formal. "I believe that's a 'yes' on the cinnamon query."

"Yes, Sir."

_What a freaking weirdo! _

An hour later, I've cleaned up the kitchen and the pie has cooled off some. Nervously, I serve it to Mr. Masen. He takes a bite and looks up at me.

"Delicious, Isabella," he praises.

I can't help it. I smile big and before I can hide it away, Mr. Masen returns it, reaching out to touch my hand for a moment. Then, he tells me I can go home.

"I'll call you a cab," he adds.

I'm about to protest, when he holds his hand up.

"Do not disrespect me," he says. "I will, of course, pay the fare since I'm the one who's ordering it."

"I'm sorry," I mumble.

"You might want to put your own clothes back on," he says, dismissing me.

I run up to the bathroom and change as quickly as possible, eager for this night to be over. I look at myself in the mirror. I just let a virtual stranger fuck the living daylights out of me.

_Who the hell am I? _

Downstairs, Mr. Masen's back to work and I wait quietly until he receives a text, telling him that the cab's arrived. Walking out into the hall, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a manila envelope, handing it to me. Again, I resist the urge to thank him. I've performed a job, I'm getting paid and now I can do my best to forget this ever happened.

"Good night," I whisper and turn my back to him, wrapping my fingers around the door handle.

"Isabella, do you cook?"

I close my eyes.

"Yes."

"I'd like for you to make me dinner on Wednesday night."  
Again, it's not a question.

"All right." I nod my head.

"Eyes to me."

_Fuck! I just want to go home now. _

I turn to face him, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

"You did everything I asked of you," he says calmly. "You earned that money. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Yes, Sir," I whisper.

"Good girl. Be here at six on Wednesday and take a cab. I'll pay the fare when you get here."

I stare at him. He really wants to see me again. I've done it.

"Thank you, Mr. Masen."

"Get home safe, Isabella," he says, running a finger alongside my cheek.

I nod and he leads me out to the waiting taxi, where he holds the door open for me. He hands the driver a bill and tells him to take me wherever I want to go in the city. Then he goes back inside his nice house, not looking back.

The cab driver doesn't try to make conversation, which is a huge relief. I glance at my watch, surprised that it's only eleven o'clock, which means I've been at Mr. Masen's for just three hours. Discreetly, I open the envelope from him, feeling my mouth drop open in surprise. Instead of the agreed-upon amount, I count ten—not five—hundred dollar bills.

_One thousand dollars! He paid me one thousand dollars!_

I feel dizzy with happiness. And, he wants to see me again. Soon, I'll be able to pay off everything I owe and Seth and I will be able to stay in our apartment. I clutch the envelope to my chest, feeling the tears drip down on my hands. My hair smells like apple pie and Mr. Masen's cologne, a reminder of what I've done tonight, but at that moment, I don't feel any guilt or shame.

"Hey, you okay, lady?" the driver asks, looking at me with concerned eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Yes," I croak. "I think I will be."

**Mr. Masen is a pretty generous guy! :) How do you feel about him now?**

**I hope you liked this. I had a blast writing it! And, I should add that all mistakes are mine, since I can't stop adding new stuff to the chapters at the last minute. **

**See you all next week! **


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. It belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

**Thank you so much to everyone reading, reviewing and rec'ing. :)**

**Thank you to Mauigirl60, for making this so much better. :) **

**I'm updating from work today, where I'll most likely be stuck until sometime tonight because of exam preparations, so I figured it was now or wait until tomorrow. I chose now. :) **

**Enjoy!**

BPOV

Alice is the only person from high school that I still see, which is a bit strange since I didn't really talk to her back then. But I've realized it had more to do with my parents not thinking she was 'good company', than any actual dislike on my part. Alice was wild back then. She partied a lot and became pregnant our junior year, leaving town to have her baby. We found each other in the city, one year after Seth was born, both of us in similar circumstances—teenage mothers with boyfriends who weren't around a lot. She finally kicked Jasper out last year, and has been raising her two girls on her own since then. She's my only friend in the world.

On Wednesday around noon, Seth and I head on over to the diner where Alice works. I'm very frugal with the money I've made, but decide to treat us to a hot lunch since I need to ask her about watching Seth tonight. I can't keep burdening Mrs. Cope and I know Seth would much rather stay at Alice's, if given the choice.

Alice looks a bit worn in her hideous pink uniform, but perks up at the sight of us. After I've gotten Seth settled in with an order of fries and a coloring book, I join her at the counter, which is the most privacy we can hope for at the moment. It's on a day like today that I wish I could afford preschool for Seth.

"So," Alice starts, pouring me a much-needed cup of coffee. "Heard from the douche yet?"

I shake my head. As far as I know, Mike could've left the country. Odds are that he hasn't. My guess is that he's staying with a woman somewhere, since I'd already suspected he was seeing someone before he left. Of course, I don't say that to anyone—especially not Seth.

"We really know how to pick 'em, huh?" She laughs, but it's not a happy sound.

"Yeah."  
We've had this conversation before and I don't feel like having it again.

"Alice, I need your help."

"Shoot."

"Can you watch Seth for me tonight? Can he have dinner at your place?"

"Um, sure. When are you dropping him off?"

"I have to be somewhere at six, so probably half an hour before that."

Alice nods and wipes off the counter.

"You're not going to ask me where I'm going?" I blurt out after a few seconds.

Alice gives me a curious look.

"Well, no," she answers slowly, "but it sounds like you really want to tell me."

I realize she's right. I do want to tell her. I know Alice won't judge me, she's not that type. And . . . maybe her acceptance will assuage the guilt I'm now starting to feel again. Mr. Masen made it sound so simple: I'm doing a job and getting paid, no shame in that. But it's less convincing now that it's been a few days, and I have no idea what to expect of my visit at his house tonight.

"I sort of got a job," I confess. "But . . . it's not exactly something to be proud of."

Alice frowns.

"You're not in trouble, are you, Bella?"

I shake my head, looking over to check on Seth, who's happily eating his greasy lunch, without a care in the world. It makes me smile.

"No, nothing like that. I'm doing this for Seth. He deserves to be happy."

"Of course," Alice agrees.

"I'm . . . I guess I'm a . . . call girl, or whatever you'd call it," I whisper, "but just for one guy."

Alice's lips part and she inhales sharply.

"Holy shit!" she whispers. "Of all the things you could have said, I never would've . . . holy _shit_, Bella!"

"Yeah, I know," I mumble.

Alice excuses herself to help a customer and returns, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"Okay, you need to start from the beginning."

So I do. I tell her everything: the failed audition at the strip club, getting picked up by Mr. Masen, the botched blow job, the visit at his house, baking pie for him, and, finally, getting screwed on his kitchen table before he'd paid me twice what we'd agreed on. Afterward, Alice's eyes have widened to near comical proportions.

"And I have to be at his house at six tonight," I add.

"Yeah," she says. "I figured."

She leaves again to help another customer so I check in on Seth, who's still happy as a clam, coloring and looking in his comic books. He's such a good kid.

"I just have to talk a bit more with Alice and then after lunch we can go home, okay?"

"Okay, Mommy. Can we watch _Cars_ when we get home?"

"It's a date."  
He grins and gets back to Spiderman's adventures, while I make it back over to the counter. Alice sighs, looking at me.

"You want my opinion?"

I nod.

"I think you're in way over your head, hon. That guy—well, he sounds freaking weird."

I nod again. Mr. Masen definitely has some quirks.

"I mean, it sounds to me like he might be one of those . . ."

She glances around and leans in.

"You know, those S&M guys who like to tie and beat up women."

"W-what?" I sputter. "He's never said anything about that!"

"Yet," she says in an ominous sounding voice. "Come on, Bella. He said he wanted to be in charge, you have to call him Sir, he held you down and fucked you, _and_ he paid you double."

"What's that—"

"To lure you back, of course, to get you hooked on the money so you'll let him do more weird stuff. How do you know he doesn't have like a dungeon or something in the basement of that house?"

"I-I don't," I admit.

I don't know anything about Mr. Masen except that he likes cleanliness, punctuality and women who do what he says.

"Look," Alice sighs. "I'm not saying you shouldn't keep doing this. I mean, I _know_ how badly you need the money, so I totally get it. But, it's like you said—he's a good-looking, rich guy. Why is he paying for sex if it isn't because he wants something completely weird?"

I don't have a good answer for her.

"You need to have a talk with him," she concludes, nodding.

"A talk?"

The thought of me and Mr. Masen having a serious talk is slightly amusing. I can't even begin to imagine it.

"I don't think he'd be up for that."  
"Well, make him. He wants to keep seeing you, right? You have to find out what his deal is and what he expects of you. Otherwise, you might actually find yourself handcuffed in that dungeon."

The thought makes me shiver.

"I really don't think he has one of those," I whisper.

"Whatever. You know what I mean. This guy isn't just in it for a quickie. You're cooking for him, parading around half-naked, wearing the clothes he picks out. If it's not just sex he's after, you need to figure out what it is then."

"Yeah, you're right," I agree, taking a deep breath.

"Hey, are you scared of him?" Alice asks, placing her hand on top of mine.

"No. I don't really get a threatening vibe from him, if that makes any sense? I wouldn't have gone with him in the first place if I did."

Alice nods.

"Just bring your mace and give me the guy's address when you drop Seth off this afternoon, okay? So at the very least, I'll know where you are."

"I will. Thanks, Alice."

"I'm glad you told me."

"Me, too."

"So, how long do you think he wants to keep seeing you?" she asks.

I shrug.

"I don't know. He hasn't said anything about that. For all I know, tonight could be the last time I ever see him. It's not like we're on a schedule. I need to get a real job."

"I'll keep my eyes out here for anything," Alice promises. "But it's usually late night shifts that open up."

"Not really an option for me," I sigh. "Unless they'll let me put a cot in the back of the kitchen for Seth to sleep on. Besides, I have no experience."

"You'll find something," Alice says, but she sounds about as confident as I feel.

"Yeah, maybe the strip club could work out once I gain a bit of weight. I used to be pretty, you know?"

"Oh, I remember," Alice chuckles. "The teen dream. And you're still pretty. Why else would your Sir pay so much?"

"I make a mean apple pie?"

Alice snorts into her coffee.

"I think it's your other pie he's after."

I roll my eyes.

"Don't remind me."  
"Was it awful?" she whispers, all traces of humor vanished.

"I don't know. It was . . . different. You know, sort of rough, I guess. But it didn't hurt or anything like that. It just was."

"Worth the money?"

I look over at Seth and nod.

"Absolutely."

A few minutes later, I join Seth at the table and try my best to eat my lunch. However, the thought of having a talk with Mr. Masen is making me far more nervous than when I was just going over there to cook and have sex. Still, I know Alice is right. I can't do that S&M stuff. There's no way. He'll have to find someone else to whip. Now I just have to figure out how to tell _him_ that.

**Yeah, how's that conversation gonna go? **

**Anyway, that's Alice. I couldn't leave Bella all alone in the world. That girl needs a friend. Next week is Christmas, and we're going to my parents' house so I probably won't get a chance to update until after the 26****th****. This year, all I wish is for my mom to have a full recovery and my kids to have a happy time with their grandparents. **

**Take care of each other and Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Kwanza, or whichever way you celebrate this month. :)**


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. It belongs to Stephenie Meyers.

**I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday. Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews. They make my day! :) **

**Thank you to Mauigirl60 for your help and friendship. **

**Enjoy!**

BPOV

Dropping Seth off at Alice's is a lot easier than expected. She promises him hot dogs for dinner and says that they can all watch _Cars 2_ afterward. Seth is obsessed with Lightning McQueen and since he doesn't own the sequel, this is enough to make him happy about staying there tonight. I feel less guilty about leaving him, and thank Alice profusely. She gets the card with Mr. Masen's address and tells me she'll expect to hear from me by midnight, or she'll assume something went wrong and will contact the police. It's a pretty good plan and I feel a lot better knowing someone has my back, so to speak.

Getting to Mr. Masen's on time is easy, now that I only have to hail a cab to take me there. As promised, he comes outside the moment we pull up to pay the driver. He doesn't turn his attention to me until the cab has left.

"Good evening, Isabella," he greets. "You look lovely tonight."

Okay, so I may have worn my prettiest skirt to get on his good side, and I'm glad to see that he approves. I wonder if that means I can skip the shower-and-change routine.

"Thank you, Sir."

"Come inside."

He leads me through the door, his hand resting on the small of my back. It's a strangely affectionate gesture. Of course, the moment we're behind the closed door, his hand slides lower, giving my ass a squeeze before pulling me against his tall frame. Both hands slip underneath the fabric, skimming my naked thighs.

"Are you going to be a good girl for me tonight?"

"Wait, Mr. Masen . . ."

I take a few steps back, out of his arms.

"Can we please talk about something before we . . . err . . . start?"

He looks bemused, a slight frown on his face.

"Talk?"

I nod.

"Very well," he says, motioning for me to join him in the kitchen.

I don't want to go in there. Right here, by the door, is fine.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather stay here," I say, taking another step back.

"Isabella, is something the matter?" he asks, his frown deepening.

"Well, no. I mean, not exactly. Mr. Masen, I don't have a lot of, you know, experience with . . . this."

"That's not a surprise."

There's no judgment in his tone of voice.

"Right. But . . . I have to ask . . . are you . . ."

I can't get the words out. He's looking me, his eyebrows raised, hands buried in his pockets. His stance isn't threatening, but his presence sort of is.

"Am I what, Isabella?"

"Um . . . that is to say, do you like . . . you know, S & . . . M?"

I squeak out the last syllable and then hold my breath. I can't believe I just asked him that!

"What do you know about that?" he asks, taking a step closer.

"Very little," I whisper. "But . . . it's about getting tied up and whipped, right?"

"It can be," he answers calmly.

"And do you want . . . that?"

"No."

"No?"

"There was a time when I thought I might be a dominant," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "I won't deny that my inclinations are a bit different than the norm, but I don't define my preferences like that. There are aspects of it that I do enjoy, though."

I gape at him. He's _so_ casual about this.

"W-what aspects?" I ask, feeling my eyes tear up. "'Cause the whole whipping thing—I can't do that! I'm really grateful that you paid me all that money, and I do need it, but . . . I'm scared you'll hurt me—"

"Isabella, easy," he soothes, producing a folded handkerchief from his pocket.

Gently, he dabs my eyes with one hand while the other one runs down the length of my hair.

"Listen to me," he says, tilting my head up so I'm forced to look into his eyes. "I won't deny that I like submissive women, because I do. And I might find it enjoyable to tie you to my bed before I fuck you."

I gasp a little.

"I may even want to spank your pretty little ass sometimes."

I start to shake my head, but he stops me, holding my chin between his thumb and index finger.

"But, Isabella, I can promise you: it will be for pleasure, _not_ punishment."

"I don't see the difference," I admit.

"It's really very simple," Mr. Masen says, taking my hand, giving it a gentle tug.

Obediently, I follow him into the kitchen where he sits me down before pouring me a glass of water. He stands behind me, gently kneading my shoulders while I take a sip and I can't help but notice his strange affectionate ways, yet again.

"I enjoy the submission part," he tells me, "but not punishment. Playrooms and instruments do nothing for me. I don't want you to fear me; I want you to show me respect. Doling out pain doesn't turn me on—neither does humiliation. "

"What _does_ turn you on?"

I know how it sounds, but I'm not trying to be coy. I genuinely need to know if this is ever going to work.

"You," he answers simply. "Cooking for me, doing whatever I tell you, on your knees with my cock in your pretty mouth, bent over the table getting fucked, tied to my bed with your ass in the air."

He pauses as his hands on my shoulders slide down my front, underneath my open jacket and my top, until they're cupping my breasts.

"The fact that I can do this whenever you're here," he says, tweaking my nipples. "Knowing that you're here to please me, that your every thought is about me and how to make me happy—sexually and otherwise. _That_, sweet girl, turns me on."

"O-oh," I whisper, not sure what else to say.

"Mmm," he hums, moving his full hands together underneath my dress. "You have the sweetest tits. One day, I'd like to slide my cock in between them and fuck them. What do you say to that, Isabella?"

_What do I say? I didn't even know you could do that!_

"If . . . that's something you'd like," I manage to say.

"You gonna be my good girl from now on?" he asks.

"Yes, Sir."

He bends down, his lips touching the shell of my ear.

"You won't regret it," he whispers.

Well, that remains to be seen. Knowing that he's not into hurting me is reassuring, though.

"So, you don't have a d-dungeon in the basement?"

His warm breath wafts across my skin as he laughs softly.

"No, Isabella. Nothing like that."

"Okay."

He moves to stand in front of me, reaching out his hand. When I take it, he pulls me up, back into his arms.

"Anything else you'd like to ask me?"

"Are you married?"

It doesn't matter if he is, but I'd still like to know.

"Not anymore."

I nod my head, feeling a bit relieved. I won't ask if he has children, worried that he might turn the question on me if I do. He can never know about Seth.

"So, Isabella," he says, releasing me. "Would you like a shower?"

"Not really."

_Oops, that's probably not how I should put it._

"I, uh, mean, I just showered before coming over here, but if it's something you'd like for me to do, I'll do it, Sir."

He smiles.

"Good answer. No, that's quite all right. I wasn't sure if you had access to one where you're staying?"

_Does he think I'm homeless and living in a shelter?_

"I . . . I have an apartment."

"That's good. I'd like for you to wear the outfit I've put out in the bathroom. You remember where it is?"

"Yes, Sir."

I resist the strange urge to curtsy as I exit the kitchen and hurry upstairs to change. Once again, there's no underwear, so I strip down and run a brush through my hair while I check my barely-there makeup. The dress is green with white polka dots, very 1950s. I pair it with the modest kitten heels he's left me, and look myself over in the mirror. I guess I'm playing a housewife tonight, which is definitely the type of woman that Mr. Masen likes.

_Submissive._

I know the word, but I can't really identify with it. I guess it doesn't matter, as long as I can do a good job of pretending while I'm here. When I come back downstairs, Mr. Masen is working at the table and I stand quietly, waiting for him to address me and not the other way around. I'm nothing if not a fast learner. After a minute, he looks up.

"Wonderful," he says, standing up and leading me to the kitchen island. "Now, you said you could cook?"

"Yes, Sir. That is, as long as it's nothing too fancy."

"I'm sure you'll manage. I enjoy a home-cooked meal. Feel free to make me whatever you'd like," he says, gesturing toward the refrigerator.

"Yes, Sir."

He reaches into a drawer, pulling out a white apron which he ties around my waist.

"Perfect," he says, nodding to himself.

As he leaves my side, he winks, giving my ass a playful squeeze.

"I'll be watching."

_Oh, I have no doubt of that. _

**So, I hope that cleared up at least one thing about Mr. Masen. He's not a Dom, which I hope won't disappoint. There are lots of great D/s stories out there but I wanted to do something a little different with these characters. A few spankings and a bit of kink does not a Dom make, which I'm sure at least a few of my more adventurous readers can attest to. ;) **

**Thank you so much for reading and finally I'd like to wish each and every one of you a happy New Year. See you next week!**


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. It belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

**Dear all, I hope you've all made it happily and safely into the new year. We spent a quiet evening at home, playing games and eating good food. **

**A few things: A lot of you have asked about Mr. Masen's age. He's around 40 years old, or at least, that's how Bella describes him upon their first meeting. Also, I know the chapters are short. That's the best I can do, and still keep to a weekly posting schedule. RL continues to be hectic and, unfortunately, I don't see that changing anytime soon. As for an EPOV, which has been requested by a few of you, it won't be a part of the main story. I'm not that fond of stories with multiple POVs anymore and find them a bit repetitive. Once the story is done, I may write one as an outtake, but I won't promise anything. This is Bella's story and I do believe at least some of you are enjoying the mystery of Mr. Masen. :)**

**Thank you so much for all your reviews. I'm so happy you're all aboard with Mr. Masen's particular brand of kink. ;)**

**Thank you, Mauigirl60, for making me a better writer in every way and for helping me whip this story into shape. **

**Enjoy! **

BPOV

Mr. Masen sits back down at his table with his seemingly unending stack of paperwork, while I begin the task of cooking his dinner. Inside his fridge, there are lots of choices, and I wonder what I should make. This feels like another test. For a moment, I consider a meatloaf, which is probably what Donna Reed or June Cleaver would make for their TV husbands, but decide that might be too clichéd. After all, I don't want him to think I'm making a joke out of his 1950s fetish, strange as it may be. His taste seems old-fashioned so I rule out anything involving pasta, which is something Seth and I eat a lot at home. Instead, I decide on a roast chicken with a side of mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas. I don't think I can go wrong with that. I mean, everyone loves chicken, right?

Putting the stuff I need out on the counter, I glance at Mr. Masen and, unsurprisingly, find him observing me. As our eyes meet, he smiles and stands up, walking over to stand behind me.

"Looks wonderful," he comments.

I'm not sure if he's referring to the ingredients or me in the housewife get-up.

"Thank you, Sir."

His hands trail up my bare arms, leaving goose bumps in their wake, before running back down to my waist and tugging gently on the knot holding the apron together.

"Someday, I think I'll tie you to my bed using this," he whispers, brushing his lips against the side of my neck.

"Y-yes, Sir," I whisper, gripping the edge of the counter.

"But not tonight," he continues, placing soft kisses on my skin. "We have plenty of time, don't we, Isabella?"

"Yes, Sir," I lie.

I know as soon as I'm able to land another job, I'm out of here. I can't let him know that, though.

"I'm going up to my office," he says. "You're far too distracting. It's on the third floor, first door on the right. Come find me when everything's in the oven, hmm?"  
"Yes, Mr. Masen."

He moves away, but a moment later he's back, pressing his lips against my cheek.

"Thank you, Isabella," he whispers.

I watch as he gathers his papers, walks past me into the hallway and up the stairs. As soon as he's out of sight, I draw a deep breath. He makes me nervous. Not anxious per sé, but on edge. I'm thankful to be alone in the kitchen and work efficiently for the next forty-five minutes, not having to worry about playing some part. For a little while, I can simply be myself and enjoy these luxurious surroundings.

Once everything except the chicken is ready, I check my watch and head upstairs, as I was told. Passing the second floor where the bathroom I've used is located, I continue up to the top of the house, following the sound of music playing softly. Although I was asked to come up here, I knock just the same, remembering how Mr. Masen feels about interruptions.

"Come in," he says.

I enter, drawing a quick breath.

"Oh, my . . ."

Mr. Masen's office is breathtaking. Furnished with dark wood, there are bookshelves lining the walls, and a real working fireplace in front of a comfy-looking couch. My eyes are drawn to the large floor-to-ceiling windows that lead onto a balcony overlooking the bay. I can almost imagine curling up on that couch, sipping tea and reading a good book on a cold night, while enjoying the warmth of the fireplace.

What it must be like to live in a place like this, to have this kind of money. I don't think I'm a particularly materialistic person, but one day, I'd like to not worry where my son's next meal comes from, and knowing I have a steady income along with enough to save a little money each month. Hell, even living paycheck-to-paycheck sounds good to me at this point. When we'd brought Seth home from the hospital, I promised myself and him that I'd be able to offer him more than our old run-down apartment. I'd make a real life for us where he'd have lots of friends and hobbies, go to a good school, and have a yard to play in. He's almost five and has none of those things. As far as I know, there are only two other kids in the building and they're a lot older than Seth so, most days, he's stuck with me. I know he doesn't see it that way and I do my best to come up with fun activities that also have an element of learning to them. Still, I'd like for him to get out more—play with other kids. We'd go to a nearby park sometimes, but a few weeks ago, he picked up a syringe near the monkey bars and we haven't been back since. I hate that I can't take him anywhere to play without being on guard all the time and that we live in such a shitty neighborhood. I hate that one day he'll realize what a crappy deal he's been handed in life—no grandparents, a father who left him, and a mother who can't properly support him. He'll never experience a view like this or a life without financial worries.

"Isabella?"

Instantly, I'm back to reality.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

Mortified, I realize my face is wet with tears and turn away from Mr. Masen.

"Come here."

It's not a request. I walk toward him at his desk, hoping he's not too angry with me. I didn't mean to get lost inside my head.

"Come on," he beckons, holding out his hand to me.

As soon as I reach him, he pulls me down onto his lap, reaching into his pocket for one of his handkerchiefs and wipes my tears away.

"Want to tell me what happened just now?" he murmurs.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, shaking my head. "I was . . . overwhelmed. It won't happen again, I promise. I've never been in a house like this before. You have so much."

"You've been having a rough time, haven't you?"

I look up, meeting his eyes. Slowly, I nod. He nods back.

"You don't have to worry anymore," he says.

"Why's that?"

"You take good care of me, and I'll take good care of you, Isabella."

"How do I do that?"

I feel like I'm constantly screwing up, always crying in front of him. I'm supposed to be here for him, not the other way around.

"I mean, what is it that you want from me, Mr. Masen?"

He settles me more comfortably in his lap, cradling me like I'm a small child.

"In a word," he says, "worship."

"Worship?"

"I don't merely want you to cook and bake for me, Isabella. I want you to _want_ to do those things, because you know they bring me enjoyment. I want you to _want _to please me. It's not about just taking orders from me. I like having you obey—there's no doubt of that—but I'd like it even more if you did those things on your own."

I draw a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. He's never revealed so much about his motives before.

"So . . . treat you as if I worship you?"

"Mmm," he hums into my hair. "When you're here with me, I want that to be your only focus: how to make me happy."

He tilts my head up. He's so close; I can feel his breath against my lips.

"Isabella, tell me the truth. Are you afraid of me?"

His eyes scan my face.

"I know you were the first night in my car, and I don't blame you. That was a scary thing you did—going with a stranger like that—but I know you probably have a very good reason for taking that risk."

My heart slams against my ribcage.

_Seth. Seth was my reason for doing that. Does Mr. Masen know about him? No. He couldn't. Could he?_

"Easy, easy," he soothes, holding me a bit tighter. "I don't care why you're doing this. Your reasons are your own."

I relax a little.

"The money," he says. "It's making things better for you?"

I nod my head, unwilling to elaborate.

"Good. That's good. Now, back to my previous question: are you afraid of me?"

"Not really," I whisper.

"That's a very weak reply," he says in a stern voice.

"I'm sorry. I . . . I'm not afraid of you, like you'll beat me up or kill me."

"But?" he prompts.

"The stuff you want—the sex stuff . . . it scares me a little, yes."

"Thank you for your honesty," he says, nodding. "You're very inexperienced. How many sexual partners have you had, Isabella?"

My face flames and I really want to tell him it's none of his business. But, like it or not, I'm now in a sexual relationship with Mr. Masen and he'll probably want to do a lot more than I've ever done before. I realize honesty probably is the best policy, if this strange arrangement is ever going to work out.

"Two," I mumble, looking down. "Including you."

"I see."

_What's he thinking now?_

After a beat he continues.

"Thank you for telling me, Isabella. So can I assume nearly everything will be a first for you, then?"

Mike and I had only had sex a dozen times before I became pregnant before the nausea began and Mike not wanting to do it when I started showing. After Seth was born, there wasn't much going on in the bedroom except breastfeeding. Later, we fought over money, over him never being around, and whatever else. Hell, I'm practically the Virgin Mary.

"Yes," I admit. "I haven't really done much of anything. On the table last time . . . that was . . . _adventurous_ for me."

"For me, as well."

I look up to see if he's joking, but he looks perfectly serious.

"I'd like to do that again sometime," he whispers.

"Yes, Sir."

Remembering what he said a minute ago, I add, "I'd like that, as well, Sir."

He draws me close and I rest my head on his shoulder. A new song comes on, not what I expected.

"Springsteen?"

"You don't like him?"

He strokes my hair all the way from the top of my head and down my back. It feels sort of nice, I have to admit.

"No, I like him. I just imagined you only listening to classical music or jazz."

"I'm not _that_ old," he chuckles.

"No, you're not," I agree.

His arms feel good around me, the music is nice and the room so warm. For a moment, I can almost pretend that everything is fine and someone else is taking care of me for a change. I close my eyes, melting into his caress. He doesn't ask anything of me, no sexual favors or acting like something I'm not. He just holds me. It doesn't feel like I'm worshipping him. It almost feels the other way around. I don't understand him at all, and while I still think he's sort of a weirdo, I guess I can deal with that.

"Mmm," Mr. Masen sighs, running his fingers through my hair. "Sweet girl."

Yes, I can be his sweet girl. At least, I think I can. For a little while.

**Of course she can! :) **

**I hope you liked a bit of tenderness between the two of them to start off the new year. We'll see how long it takes for Mr. Masen to return to his kinky ways. ;) See you next week! **


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. It belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

**Thank you for your reviews. I can't tell you what a thrill it is to read them and listen to your thoughts and theories. :) Your continued prayers and good thoughts regarding my mom and my kids is a source of constant support. I'm so grateful for all of you. 3 (That's supposed to be a heart) **

**Mauigirl60 is the reason why the story sounds like it was written by an American, and not someone who merely teaches English for a living. Thank you. **

**Speaking of teaching; I'm going out of town for work next week so I may not be able to update. We'll see how it goes. Now, who's hungry for some . . . dinner? ;) **

**Enjoy!**

BPOV

The Springsteen song ends, breaking the spell I'm under. Mr. Masen's arms, which felt comforting a moment ago, now make me feel claustrophobic. What am I doing, snuggling up with him? I'm his goddamned prostitute, and here I am, acting like a clingy girlfriend in need of comfort. I can't help but tense up and he notices immediately.

"Isabella?"

"I'm sorry. I should probably go check on dinner, Sir."

Mr. Masen tightens his arms around me for a moment and then lets me go. I climb off his lap, standing next to his chair with my hands folded in front of me. Now, I feel like a servant again, which is exactly how it should be. I wish he hadn't been so affectionate with me, and I really wish I hadn't liked it so much.

"How long until it's done?" he asks, hitting a button on the laptop that silences the music in the room.

I need to check on the chicken, which should have been done by now, and reheat the side dishes.

"Fifteen minutes, Sir," I say, looking down to avoid his eyes.

"I'd like for you to set the table in the dining room. I'll expect to be served in _precisely_ fifteen minutes then."

His voice is stern and I don't understand why. My only guess is that he, too, has realized that I crossed a line, cuddling with him.

"Yes, Sir."

"You're excused."

I practically flee the room; my exposed skin feels chilled all of a sudden from Mr. Masen's sudden switch from kind to cold. Rushing downstairs to the kitchen, I pull the chicken out of the oven and check it, sighing with relief that it is, in fact, done. I cover it to stay warm, set the dials on the stove to low and go in search of the dining room, which I've never seen before.

Upon locating it, I find myself, once again, gaping at the beauty of this house. The room is very large and could host twenty people for a dinner party, but looks like it's rarely used at all. I wonder why Mr. Masen wants to eat in here all by himself instead of sitting in the kitchen where it's nice and cozy, but it's not my place to question him. I'm merely the hired help. In one of the cabinets, I find what I assume is the fancy china and wine glasses, and make up a single place setting at one end of the table. Back in the kitchen, I load the food into pretty serving dishes and carry them with me, hoping everything is hot enough. I realize I have nothing to pour into his wine glass, but I can't do much about that before he arrives. In the kitchen, he has some kind of special refrigerator, or whatever, so I'm sure those bottles cost more than, well, me. No way am I messing up by opening the wrong one.

Two minutes later, he arrives as I'm leaning over the table to light the two tapers I found in the cupboard along with the cloth napkins.

"Perfect timing I see."

I look over and can't help but smile at his pleased expression, happy that he's seemingly forgotten my clingy embrace upstairs.

"Everything looks and smells wonderful, Isabella," he praises, walking over to where I'm standing.

"Thank you, Sir. I do need your opinion, though."

"Oh?"  
"I don't know much about wine, and I didn't want to open the wrong bottle," I explain. "They look . . . very expensive?"

"They are," he says, nodding. "That was very thoughtful of you, Isabella. I'll go get one."

I breathe out as he leaves. Everything seems like a test, but at least it feels as though I'm succeeding some of the time. Mr. Masen returns with an open bottle of red wine and takes his seat. Then, he looks up at me, as if he's waiting for me to do something.

_Am I supposed to serve him?_

It seems I am, so I start by pouring him some wine before loading food onto his plate, being very careful not to spill anything. All the while, he's watching me, a small smile on his face. He _really_ likes this whole serving bit.

_Weirdo._

After I'm done, I turn to leave, only to have him pull me back.

"Stay," he orders, taking the first bite of his dinner.

He hums appreciatively and looks up at me.

"Delicious. You're a very good cook, sweet girl."

I flush with pleasure. Another test passed.

"Thank you, S-Sir," I stutter, feeling his free hand slide up the back of my leg, underneath the full skirt of the dress. He continues eating with his left hand, while the right gently kneads my naked ass.

"These potatoes are very good," he comments, loading another forkful. "Spread your legs."

_He wouldn't! Not in here while he's eating!_

I move my feet apart, pressing my lips together to stop from gasping as his fingers slip between my legs. He starts out slowly, warming me up, I guess. And it works. His touch is gentle, stroking the sensitive skin on my inner thighs before moving to part me, and playing me like a well-loved instrument. For a few minutes he eats in silence, pausing only to taste his wine. His fingers are now sliding in and out of me, effortlessly. Every ten seconds or so he pauses, spreading my wetness around and rubbing my clit. I know it shouldn't feel good to me, but I can't deny that it does. My libido, which has been pretty much non-existent ever since Seth was born, seems to have been awakened, and I don't know how to feel about the fact that it's happened at the hands of Mr. Masen. Yes, he's very handsome and obviously knows what he's doing, but he's so weird and not at all someone I'd imagined myself feeling attracted to. Wordlessly, he removes his hand and I feel both relief and a twinge of regret.

I stand still while Mr. Masen moves his now-empty plate to the side and pushes his chair back, making room for me to stand directly in front of him, although facing away.

"Lift your dress up, bend over and present yourself to me," he orders in a rough-sounding voice.

_Present myself?!_

My face burns, but I obey just the same, placing my elbows on the table while fisting the hem of the dress. Somehow, I feel even more exposed like this than if I'd been completely naked. This feels so lewd.

"Mmm, so pretty," Mr. Masen hums, running his hands over my exposed thighs and ass. "So soft and pale. Spread your legs, Isabella."

I do as I'm told, cringing a little knowing that Mr. Masen will see how his touch affects me. He sighs contentedly behind me, his fingers slipping through the wetness I've created before dipping inside me.

"Such a good girl," he murmurs, turning his fingers so that his thumb finds my clit.

His left hand kneads my buttocks and I close my eyes, not sure how to react. What he's doing to me feels good, but I won't acknowledge that to him. I can't. Suddenly, his left hand is gone and I startle as it connects with my skin, creating a loud slapping sound.

_Fuck, he just spanked me!_

For a few seconds, I'm frozen. The only sound in the room is his harsh breathing behind me. I hardly dare to draw my own breath. Then, his fingers start moving again, causing me to inhale sharply. I can't believe he did that. Well, actually, I can. This _is_ Mr. Masen, after all. Still, I thought he would have waited to do something like this and maybe prepared me in advance. Then I realize I wasn't scared because I wasn't expecting it and it didn't really hurt.

"Such a good girl," Mr. Masen repeats, bringing his hand down on my ass again.

I'm ready for it this time and try to focus on his fingers and his thumb, which are working me over like I've never experienced before. I try to stop my hips from rocking, but it's damned near impossible.

"Uh!" I gasp, as he spanks me for the third time, pressing my lips together immediately, as if that can somehow withdraw the sound I made.

Mr. Masen, however, must like hearing me a lot, because his fingers move faster causing me to bury my face against my arms to muffle my heavy breathing. I can't remember the last time I felt like this. I didn't know I was even able to anymore.

"Mmmf," I moan, squeezing my eyes shut as he continues to rub and thrust and slap in perfect harmony.

My hips gyrate, silently begging him for more as his hand connects with my ass again and again and again.

_Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!_

_I'm so close! _

Abruptly, he stops. He turns me around and pushes me to my knees, reaching behind me to unzip my dress and yanks it down, causing my breasts to pop out. I tremble as my body is denied what it wants, but in the back of my mind, I'm glad he stopped when he did. I don't want to share something so intimate with him. I'm not ready for him to see me like that.

Mr. Masen stands, unbuckles and unzips his pants, letting them drop to the floor. He's not wearing any underwear, either. I look up at him, licking my lips nervously. I know what he wants me to do, but I was so bad at it the last time.

"Open," he orders, running his thumb across my lips.

Drawing a deep breath, I comply, accepting his thick cock inside my mouth. He moans, getting a good grip on my hair.

"Use your tongue," he instructs, setting an already fast pace, "and . . . no teeth."

I do my best, sliding my tongue against him as he thrusts. Suddenly, he pauses, reaching behind to move his chair while he slips out of my mouth. Then, he steps out of his pants, places his foot on the seat and demands my mouth again. He enjoys thrusting a few times and then stopping to tap his cock against my lips.

"You want this?" he asks.

"Yes, Sir."

"In your pussy?"

"I . . ."

I don't know what to say.

"I think you do," he says, sliding it in between my parted lips. "I think you want to be fucked so badly. I think you're very nearly dripping on my carpet right now."

I flush, because he's probably right.

"But you know what, Isabella? You won't get it, until you beg for it. Can you do that for me?"

I close my eyes. How can I ask him for that? It's impossible.

"That's okay, sweet girl. In time," he tells me, tightening his hold on my hair. "Now, look at me."

He fucks my mouth with vigor, keeping his eyes on my face. When I gag around him, he tells me to breathe through my nose, which helps a bit but my eyes still water.

"Fuck!" he gasps. "S-swallow!"

He stills, but pulses wildly at the same time and I try very hard to obey, but end up coughing a little. Even so, it's a lot better than last time. I keep him in my mouth as he calms down above me and his hands moves from my hair to my cheeks. His thumbs wipe underneath my eyes and I look up at him. He has a serene smile on his face.

"Perfect," he tells me. "You were perfect."

**Kinky enough for y'all? ;) Surprised that Bella was sort of into it? **

**Hope you liked the chapter, I definitely liked writing it. **

**I hope to see you next week, but if I'm too busy with work, don't despair. I'll make it up to you with a longer chapter the week after, I promise. **


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. It belongs to Stephenie Meyer

**Thank you for all your reviews. Glad you liked the kink. :D Speaking of which, there's another purge going on so if FFN removes this story, I'm also posting on TWCS and Fictionpad. **

**Thank you to Mauigirl60 for all your help. Despite your tutelage, I still don't know how to use semicolons correctly, and you're a saint for not yelling at me. :) **

**Enjoy!**

BPOV

Mr. Masen is all smiles as he pulls out of my mouth and starts putting his clothes back in order. I remain kneeling on the floor, unsure of what to do. Well, what I really want to do is brush my teeth—or at least drink something—but I remain where I am until he finishes dressing.

"Up you go," he says softly, reaching down to help me to my feet.

I wince as my admittedly bony knees are stretched out and I have to lean on him a little until the ache in them subsides. I didn't used to be this frail, but I've lost a lot of muscle tone and endurance since my cheerleading days. Also, not eating properly to make sure Seth has never gone hungry has taken a bit of a toll on my health.

"Easy," Mr. Masen whispers, sitting down with me in his lap.

Gently, he runs his hands across my legs.

"Next time, we'll get you a pillow, hmm?" he says, massaging my knees.

"Thank you, Sir. That would be good."

"Are you all right?" he asks.

I nod my head, a bit surprised by his question. I'm not sure if he's referring to my legs or the blowjob. His concern is sort of nice, though. His hands trail upward to my bare breasts, brushing his thumbs over my stiff nipples. I bite back a moan as he gives them both a little tug before pulling the dress back in place, covering me up. When I dare to look up at him, he's wearing a bit of a smirk, obviously quite aware of the fact that he's aroused me.

"Are you able to stand now?" he asks.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. I'd like for you to reheat the food and bring me a fresh plate and utensils."

I climb off his lap and do as I'm told. Once the food is hot again, I serve him another plate, only to have him pull me back onto his lap, where he settles me comfortably. I stare at him as he loads some mashed potatoes onto his fork and holds it up to my mouth.

"Open."

"Sir?"

"I want to feed you," he says, as though that's perfectly normal.

_Ummm, okay. _

I accept it, and he smiles.

"Good girl. You need a bit more meat on your bones."

"I'm working on it," I whisper.

He nods, placing the fork on the plate as he reaches for the wine glass, bringing it to my lips. Truthfully, I don't like wine at all but I take a sip anyway, not able to hide the way my lips pucker as the sour taste hits my tongue. Mr. Masen laughs, setting down the glass.

"I suppose it's an acquired taste. You don't drink, I take it then?"

"No, Sir."

I went to some parties in high school, but I haven't had a drink since becoming pregnant. It was never something I cared much about back then and I certainly wouldn't drink while Seth is around, which is always.

"I don't drink soda, but I believe there might be some in the fridge for the cleaning staff and the gardeners," Mr. Masen says.

"Not even at the movies?" I blurt out. "Err, soda, I mean."

"The movies?"

He looks surprised.

"Well, I honestly can't remember the last time I went to a movie."

He helps me off his lap.

"Go get your soda. Then we can talk some more while you eat."

Two minutes later, I'm back on his lap, being fed dinner. A tall glass of Coca-Cola is next to the plate.

"So, do you go to the movies a lot, Isabella?"

I shake my head, swallowing.

"Too expensive," I elaborate.

While I know Mr. Masen is aware of my financial circumstances, it still makes me uncomfortable to discuss something like that with him—or anyone, for that matter.

"Of course," he says. "That's a shame. A young girl like you should enjoy herself."

He seems genuinely regretful for me. Slowly, I move my hands from my lap and run them up his torso, holding him around his neck.

"This is pretty enjoyable," I say.

He observes me for a moment, the fork paused mid-air between the plate and my mouth. Then, he smiles.

"That it is."

I return the smile before taking another bite of food.

"What's your favorite movie?" I ask, after I've swallowed.

His eyebrows go up and his lips purse.

"Oh, I don't know," he says, offering me a drink. "I don't have much time for movies anymore."

"You work a lot."

He nods.

"Well, if you did have the time, what would you watch?"

"Indiana Jones, probably."

My mouth drops open. That definitely wasn't the answer I was expecting. I thought he'd mention an old black and white film, not an action movie.

"Seriously? I mean, uh, really, Sir?"

"Hey, I'm a child of the eighties," he says with a grin. "I grew up on those movies."

"So . . . um, how old would that make you?"

"Thirty-nine."

I observe him a bit more closely than I have before. I thought he was a little older, but maybe that's because of how he dresses and does his hair. I try to imagine him in a t-shirt and jeans with unstyled hair, but find that I can't. Besides, I like that he dresses nicely. He's quite . . . sexy.

I realize I'm staring at him and when I meet his eyes, my face heats. He tilts my head up, holding my chin.

"Not too old to make you blush, pretty girl?" he asks, his green eyes lit up with amusement.

"No," I whisper, "not too old, Sir."

"Good to know."

He offers me another bite, which I accept. I'm feeling a bit more comfortable speaking with him now, and he seems very open at the moment. I don't want there to be any weirdness between us.

"I'm sorry about earlier. In your office . . . I shouldn't have."

"Shouldn't have what?" he asks. "Sought comfort?"

I nod my head.

"I'm here for you," I whisper. "Not the other way around. You said so."

"I remember," he says calmly. "I'm also the one who dried your eyes and held you. Now, what does that tell you?"

"I don't know."

He pierces me with his gaze.

"It means that I get what I want. If I want to hold you, I get to. If I want to comfort you, I get to. If I want to fuck your mouth, I get to. If I want to feed you dinner, I get to. Don't be mistaken, Isabella. Whenever I do something, it's of my own volition."

"Y-yes, Sir. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he says. "Be mine."

"Yours?"

He nods.

"Surrender to me. Trust me. Let me be in charge. All you have to do is obey. If I invite you into my arms, don't pull away like you did earlier. If I give you pleasure, don't deny yourself. I want your tears, your words, your thoughts, your orgasms. I want all of it. Understand?"

Yes, I understand what he's saying, but to give him everything is impossible. There are parts of who I am that simply don't mesh with what he wants me to be. I'm a mom first. Always. His fantasy doesn't include wiping a runny nose, reading bedtime stories and, most importantly, always putting Seth before anyone else. Mr. Masen wants me to put him first and I can do that while I'm here, but it won't be the real me he's getting, so it will never be everything. Of course, I can't tell him any of this. It would ruin the fantasy.

"All that, and worship too?" I ask, hoping to lighten the mood.

The corners of his lips twitch.

"Definitely worship, too."

"I can do that, Sir."

"I know," he says, lifting the fork to my lips again. "You're my sweet girl."

An hour later, I've cleaned up after dinner and am back in my own clothes. Mr. Masen leads me to the door, his hand once again resting on my lower back. After handing me an envelope, he pulls out his phone and taps at it a few times. He frowns, and then sighs.

"I'll be traveling so I won't have time to see you until the same time next week."

"Oh. That's okay, Sir."

I'm just happy there will be a next time at all.

"Will you be all right until then?"

His question startles me, but I recover quickly.

"Um, yes, Mr. Masen. I'll be fine."

"Good. That's good."

He nods. After a moment, he reaches into his pocket again and hands me another envelope, but this one has writing on it. _Bowie Salon & Spa. _I look at it and then up at him.

"Sir?"

"It's for you," he says. "A gift card. To enjoy yourself."

"Oh, thank you. What . . . uh, what would you like me to get done, Sir?"

_Please don't say waxing, please don't say waxing!_

"That's entirely up to you," he answers.

_Really?_

"Although," he adds, looking at me. "I'd prefer it if you didn't cut off your hair."

"I won't," I promise.

"And . . . clear nail polish."

I nod.

"And natural-looking eyebrows."

_So not _entirely_ up to me, after all. _

"Basically, don't change a thing. You're perfect as is, but have an enjoyable day and relax, all right?"

I know I'm a far cry from perfect, but I can't help but smile at his unexpected compliment and generosity.

"Thank you, Sir. I will."

He takes a step closer and reaches out to take my hand in his. His thumb traces over my knuckles a few times before he lifts our joined hands to his mouth, pressing his lips against my skin for a moment.

"Thank you, Isabella," he says, "I've had a lovely evening."

His eyes are large and sincere. Looking into them makes my chest feel funny.

"Me too, Sir."

"Same time next week then?"

I nod, wordlessly, and he smiles. Outside, the taxi honks its horn and Mr. Masen leads me through the doorway, still holding my hand. He pays the cabbie and holds the door open for me as I climb inside. Leaning down after closing the door, he motions for me to roll down the window, which I do.

"Yes . . ." I glance at the driver in front, who's busy fiddling with his radio. "Sir?"

"I forgot to tell you," he whispers, leaning in closer. "Next week, I have every intention of fucking you, which means I _will_ make you beg for my cock, Isabella. In fact, I look forward to it."

My mouth drops open. The driver is right there, for Christ's sake! Mr. Masen sees my shocked expression and, apparently, takes pity on me.

"Get home safely, sweet girl," he says softly.

I regain my wits.

"Have a safe trip, Sir."

He smiles, straightens himself and taps the roof of the cab twice, which makes the cabbie start the car. I look behind as we drive off, seeing Mr. Masen still standing there, his hands now buried in his pockets, watching me leave. What will he do now? Go back to his work? I guess it doesn't matter, since I'm off the clock, so to speak, and yet . . .

_It must be lonely._

He's such a strange man. Stern and cold one minute, and then playful; and, seemingly quite a pervert. There's also a kindness to him that I never would've expected. He cares for me in his own weird way, I think. Next week, he's going to make me beg for him to fuck me again, and if he does what he did to me tonight, I'll probably mean it. I remember his fingers, how they felt inside me. His hand warming my backside, the rough sound of his voice, and the taste and feel of his cock in my mouth. The way his eyes fluttered close right before he came and the sound of his moans, knowing I was the one giving him pleasure.

I clench my thighs, embarrassed by the dull throbbing sensation between them. What's wrong with me? Why do I react like this? It's not fucking normal!

Twenty minutes later, I knock softly on Alice's door. The moment I see her, looking so familiar and safe, I burst into tears.

"You w-were r-r-right," I hiccup. "I'm in w-way over my h-head!"

**I'd surrender to him in a heartbeat, just sayin'… ;)**

**Thank you for reading. I'll do my best to get a chapter written for next week, I promise. **


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